


REWIND / REPLAY

by Anonymous



Series: Hannibal AUs [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Intubation, M/M, Medical Kink, Mindfuck, Nice Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 17:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11926125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Prompt: Can I have an AU where Will never solved the Minnesota Shrike case because Hannibal diagnosed his encephalitis and he's been sedated ever since? All of this cannibal stuff is just a product of his fevered brain, and Hannibal is actually the kindly, courteous psychologist of Will's dreams?Lots of confused Will and loving, protective Hannibal please!





	REWIND / REPLAY

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old hannibalkink fill, dusted off and slightly updated.

Will wakes up slowly. He can't move. He tugs fruitlessly on his wrists and finds that they are restrained.  
  
He's conscious of a single point of contact, in the middle of his forearm - human warmth, like one finger is resting there.  
  
There's something in his mouth.  
  
"William?"  
  
He gets his eyes open, just barely. Slides them to the side.  
  
It's Hannibal. He's smiling.  
  
Will groans, faintly. The last thing he remembers is jumping from the cliff. From the white brightness of the room and the smell of antiseptic, he's in a hospital now. How is Hannibal at his bedside?  
  
Warm fingers curl around his own. "You've been very sick, Will," says Hannibal, squeezing his hand gently. "Don't try to talk, there's a tube in your throat to help you breathe. The doctor will remove it shortly. Squeeze my fingers if you understand me."  
  
Will is more likely to pull his hand away, but reluctantly he squeezes. His wrists, he notices, and secured with medical restraints to the bedframe, presumably to keep him from pulling out anything he's hooked up to.  
  
"Good, good Will," says Hannibal faintly, still holding tight. "Thank God. We've all been very worried about you, but you're going to be fine. You're safe now."  
  
Will's mind spins fruitlessly. What has happened? Why hasn't Hannibal been arrested, why hasn't he fled? Where are Jack and Alana - are they alive?  
  
With his thoughts racing, Will is barely aware of the doctors milling around. He comes to coughing and gagging as he's extubated.  
  
"Easy, Will, it's alright, you're fine." Hannibal is back at his side, this time wiping his mouth with a damp cloth. Will should flinch from the touch. Hannibal is evil, is as close to the Devil walking as Will is ever likely to encounter.  
  
But Will is exhausted and weak and sore. At least Hannibal is familiar.  
  
Hannibal offers a cup of water, holding the cool rim to his lips when Will nods. He seems to know exactly how much Will can handle. Will swallows thankfully.  
  
"Not too much," says Hannibal, drawing back.  
  
The doctors poke and prod, asking questions. Will answers, when he knows the answer. Someone lifts his sheets, opens his legs to do something with the catheter Will knows is inserted. He whines as cold, gloved fingers lift his limp penis.  
  
"It’s alright, Will, look at me." Hannibal slides his palm over Will’s rough cheek, turning his face away from the nurses and towards Hannibal. He strokes back Will’s sweaty hair, and Will has a sudden flashback to the touch of hands on his face after the ear had been forced down his throat.  
  
"It’s alright, William, it’s alright now," says Hannibal, his voice low and soothing, "Just look at me, there you go, good man. You’re safe here, no harm will come to you."  
  
"Why are you here?" asks Will, his voice rusty as an old door hinge.  
  
"Here," says Hannibal, offering a spoonful of ice chips. Will opens for them, feeling like a child, being spoon-fed. But the ice feels like heaven on his throat.  
  
He looks up into Hannibal’s smooth face, expecting to see – he doesn’t know, darkness, he supposes. Doctor Lector as he knew him was a sadist, and he enjoyed the sight of Will’s suffering most of all; he would not have been able to conceal the sparkle of interest at this latest extremity.  
  
But this Hannibal is gentle, concerned. He lifts a hand to comb his fingers through Will's disordered curls. Will closes his eyes, exhausted.  
  
Doctor Lector was fond of Will, in his own way. It's possible that he was capable of compassion if he chose to be. But he could never have looked at Will like that. That expression, frozen behind Will's closed eyelids, was human.  
  
Will knows – his gift tells him implicitly – that this Hannibal loves him.  
  
What the hell is going on?

...

 

Will lies still and passive while the medical staff buzz around him, taking his blood, testing his reflexes. His eyes are on Hannibal the whole time. It's the same face, that's the thing - patrician, unruffled even though he looks weary now, his expressions still smooth and unrevealing. But it's not the same man.  
"What happened?" Will asks, when they're momentarily alone.  
  
Hannibal reaches for his hand like it's become habit, then visibly pauses and withdraws.  
  
"Do you remember the missing girls in Minnesota?" Hannibal asks.  
  
It's an odd question. "The Shrike," says Will. "Garrett Jacob Hobbs."  
  
Hannibal's expression is politely frozen. "We never made it to Minnesota, Will," he says, very gently. "Doctor Hobbs is your attending physician. Do you remember? You came to my house for a psychological evaluation, but it was evident that you were suffering from a physical malady. You were hallucinating. I took you to the hospital where you were diagnosed with encephalitis."  
  
Will is aware that his mouth has dropped open.  
  
"You were administered intravenous acyclovir," said Hannibal, giving into what was evidently a strong temptation to touch Will, adjusting the lay of his arm on the blanket, so the IV did not tug. "When that did not relieve your symptoms they added antibiotics, but you suffered an abreaction. You had to be sedated, later intubated. You have been in a medically induced coma for almost six weeks now."  
  
Will swallows.  
  
"At times, we feared major organ failure," Hannibal continues flatly, but this Hannibal's placid façade conceals only deep emotion, not violence. "You've ran a terrible fever for ten days. You were diagnoses with interstitial nephritis and seemed to be developing ventilator-associated pneumonia."  
  
None of this sounds familiar to Will.  
  
"But you turned the corner a few days ago, and have showed steady improvement since then." Hannibal blinks rapidly, and Will wonders if it's really possible that those are tears of relief.  
  
"I - I had ... strange dreams," says Will.  
  
He closes his eyes and lets the pendulum swing. There he is in the bed, hooked up to all these machines. Hannibal is sleeping next to him in the uncomfortable chair, one finger touching Will's arm. Where had he seen that gesture before? At Abigail Hobbes's bedside, the first time Will found Hannibal really interesting.  
  
The memory is still oddly painful, for something that may have never happened.  
  
The beep and whoosh of the respirator, the smell of antiseptic. It wasn’t Abigail in the hospital, with Will sitting by her bedside. It was Will himself in the bed. The voices of Alana and Jack, of Beverly: merely his friends visiting him. The plastic muzzle at the Hospital for the Criminally insane – merely an oxygen mask over his face. The tube in his throat, the restraints – and Hannibal's voice, always Hannibal, always in his head -  
  
Because Hannibal had never left his side.  
  
"The girls, in Minnesota ..." asks Will brokenly.  
  
"A drifter," says Hannibal. "Arrested in a routine traffic stop. He was abducting and assaulting them, then dumping the bodies across state lines."  
  
Will shakes his head, disbelieving. "Abigail?"  
  
"Your night nurse? A very kind young lady," Hannibal looks puzzled. "What about her?"  
  
"Nothing," says Will, dropping back against the pillows. "Nothing."  
  
"You should rest." Hannibal pulls at the edges of the sheet, lifts it higher to cover Will's chest, tucks it around him. The gesture is practiced.  
  
"Why are you here?" asks Will, finally. "We must have met, what, one or two times? But in my memories, what I remember - you're ... always nearby."  
  
Hannibal hesitates, still tugging at wrinkles in the sheets. "It's true that our acquaintance has been relatively short," he says quietly, eyes on the fabric. "It is possible I have - overstepped the bounds of professional concern. I apologize."  
  
"But - why?" asks Will. His head is spinning, trying to understand that everything he remembers has been nothing more than one more elaborate trick of his subconscious. But this question is more important.  
  
"In the brief time we have known each other, I felt as though we - connected profoundly," says Hannibal, in a tone that is almost shy. "I found myself unaccountably concerned for your safety. I - felt compelled to stay close by. Perhaps it was inappropriate."  
  
Will has a sudden recollection of the way he felt about Hannibal, before he realized what he was. That sense of finding someone, finally, who understood him, who sympathized, without pity. An anchor, a paddle.  
  
That was real, and everything else was the dream.  
  
"I - don't mind," he says awkwardly, looking away. But he knows Hannibal will understand what he means, despite the inadequacy of the expression.  
  
Hannibal bends solemnly over the bedside and kisses Will's limp hand. It is an old-fashioned gesture, courtly, and suits this new version of him.  
  
"You are very tired," he says, when he straightens, "and must rest to regain your strength. Miss Bloom tells me that your dogs are anxious to see you. We wouldn't want to disappoint them."  
  
Will closes his eyes obediently, feeling once again the point of contact which is Hannibal resting a finger against his arm.  
  
"Sleep well, Will," says Hannibal.  
  
Will does, dreamless and deep.  



End file.
